


Five Times Spot Wanted To Cry and One Time He Did

by dyingpoet



Series: Sprace one shots [11]
Category: Newsies - All Media Types
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-16
Updated: 2018-03-16
Packaged: 2019-04-01 00:12:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13986294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dyingpoet/pseuds/dyingpoet
Summary: Title pretty much sums it up, a little bit of Spot's life pre-strike as well





	Five Times Spot Wanted To Cry and One Time He Did

**Author's Note:**

> Could this be better? Maybe, but I have writers block and a lack of motivation so I tried my best!!

It was his birthday. He didn’t know why they had to fight like this on his birthday. 

It wasn’t fair but his sister told him that life wasn’t fair last year, and then she left. So he’d figured that she must have been right, then and now.

“You fucking  _ bum _ , you’re drunk on a goddamn Sunday afternoon.”

The snarl didn’t give any significance to that particular Sunday afternoon and Spot put his head in his hands.

The sound of a hand hitting skin and a body hitting the floor and for the life of him Spot couldn’t figure out when he had curled into a ball. All of his muscles were tense and coiled in anticipation when the string of curses from the kitchen cut out for a moment. 

Slowly, Spot lifted his head from where it was pressed on top of his arms and allowed himself to look at the door between him and them. It wasn’t thick enough.

A bottle smashed into the wood and he could have sworn it gave a little, barely managing to bite back a yell before his eyes squeezed shut involuntarily. 

“Don’t  _ fucking  _ talk to me like that.”

The voices had moved a lot closer to the only room in their apartment and the instinct to run down the fire escape was stronger than ever. It was right there. He could feel the light autumn breeze and it was never locked because his father had smashed through it two years ago and-

“Stop!” 

His mother wouldn’t stop sobbing now and the door was shaking with something that Spot didn’t want to know. Soreness spread throughout his jaw as he clenched it shut because life wasn’t fair but he wasn’t a kid anymore and only kids cried. 

After a minute or so he pressure behind his eyes was insane along with the pounding of blood in his ears drowning out any sound from the rest of the apartment.

Life wasn’t fair and if his sister left maybe he should too. 

Glass broke again somewhere behind the door and Spot felt his legs stretch out in front of him. Watched them walk him over to the window, hands moving disconnected from his body and opening it with a steadiness that was not his own.

Twelve blocks. The lodging house was twelve blocks away and he knew if he went there nobody would come looking for him. There wasn’t any, well, as much, of this shit at the lodging house and at nine the curse rolled uncomfortably around in his head.

But he wasn’t a kid anymore, and only kids cried.

Air hit his face with more of a bite than he expected and suddenly he was really happy he’d worn a jacket. If he went back inside to get one he might not manage to leave again.

“Fuck this,” he said quietly, to no one really. Just wanted to say it, hear himself say it.

The sun was still above the horizon and if he got moving now he’d be at the lodging house by dark. Be out on the streets working a few hours after that.

His jaw stopped feeling sore by the time he dropped into the alley, and the pressure behind his eyes felt like a memory. 

Fuck crying. Fuck kids and fuck apartments and fuck his birthday. He didn’t want any of it anymore.

* * *

 

“Fuck is he dead?”

“No he’s breathin’ look.”

Pain shot through Spot’s ribs when he felt a hand rest on them and he jerked back automatically with a wince.

“Don’t hurt ‘im!”

“He’s waking up.”

If one if his eyes wasn’t swollen shut, he would have rolled them. He’d been ‘awake’ for a few minutes now and those two never knew when to shut up. Regardless, he propped himself up on his elbows and sat up enough to get his back against the wall.

“I’m fine you two-” Spot started as he opened his eyes. The words caught in his throat though because once the glare from the sunlight wore off he got a good look at Scraps and Blue.

“I’ll fuckin’ kill ‘im,” he snarled, pushing himself to a standing position before Scraps shoved him back down again. The spot where he’d touched Spot’s shoulder was spattered with blood but he didn’t care.

Blue had kneeled down next to him and Scraps was keeping a firm grip on his shoulders. “Stay down Spot.”

That was rich coming from him. Spot struggled to keep his breathing steady as he looked at Scraps. His shirt was cut open from the left side of his chest down to the hem, and he could see some makeshift bandages poking out from underneath. “They went after you two afta’ they got me?”

When Scraps said nothing he turned to look at Blue, kid couldn’t lie for shit and they both knew it. 

“Well um-” his eyes shifted to Scraps and Spot reached out to pull his face toward him.

“You’re talkin’ ta me, not Scraps.”

Blue nodded jerkily and took a deep breath. “Yeah, afta’ you got knocked out, me and Scraps tried to get inta’ that old liquor store, the one we used ta sleep in last winter?”

Spot nodded and Blue continued. “They caught up to us ‘bout a block from there and dragged us into an alley, it wasn’t good Spotty.” 

There was the glassy film of tears covering Blue’s eyes now and he started picking at his sleeve. His face was busted up pretty good, his nose looked broke and he had a split lip. A Jacket covered his torso but he probably cracked a few ribs too, Carver and his guys had a thing for kicking. 

Blue was ten, Scraps eleven, and Spot thirteen. Carver was almost sixteen and a fucking coward. Spot’d kill him if Bridges didn’t get to him first; the guy had kicked Carver and a few of his guys out of the lodging house a few weeks ago and was damn protective of the rest of the newsies. 

A cough brought him out of his head and Spot blinked a few times with his good eye. Scraps had put an arm around Blue and was looking at Spot worriedly. His hands were shaking, the sun was setting and it had to be below freezing now. They had to get back.

Biting back a yelp as he struggled to stand, Spot nodded at Scraps to do the same. 

Protectively, Spot wrapped an arm around Blue and started limping toward the street. “It’s okay kid, they’se gone, we’ll get ya back to the lodge house and Bridges will take care of ya, okay?”

Blue nodded against Spot’s side and Spot fought back the urge to cry at the cracked whimper that escaped his lips. He didn’t though. Scraps’ eyes were burning a hole in him as they hobbled down the street and he was older, he needed to be stronger for them.

It hurt a lot to not be able to hold that back when you and your guys got busted up, ‘specially young guys like them. With a shaky intake of breath, he fell into a somewhat steady gate and blinked hard until he couldn’t feel the tears pricking at his eyes.

If he ever got to be in charge this shit would never happen, he’d die first.

* * *

 

Bridges elbow jamming into his ribs snapped Spot out of his train of thought. The water off the Brooklyn bridge sure was pretty when the sun was out, all sparkling and shiny, something must be in the water on the Manhattan side.

“Pay attention kid, they’ll be gettin’ here soon.”

Spot rolled his eyes and kicked a stone off the edge of the bridge. “Yeah, yeah, you’ve been sayin’ that for an hour now,” he said. He caught Bridges smirk out of the corner of his eyes and didn’t have half a second to relax before he was pulled into a headlock.

The grip was firm but playful and Spot started laughing and pulling at the older boy’s arms. 

“Little smartass,” Bridges said lightly, “You gotta mouth bigger than the rest of ya body.”

Stumbling back as he was let go, Spot flashed Bridges a grin and puffed out his chest. “I ain’t that little, I’m fifteen, only two years younga’ than you.”

Bridges snorted and shoved lightly at Spot’s chest. “Yeah and I got almost a foot on ya kid.”

“Yeah well-”

“Bridges!” a voice cut off Race and the playful atmosphere dissipated as quick as it had arrived, “Long time no see.”

They both looked up to see a lanky guy, around seventeen, walking up with two guys about Race’s age behind him. The big one was Paulie, he’d been the leader of the Manhattan boys since he was ten Bridges had told him. One of the other guys was Jack something, Paulie was grooming him to be leader like Bridges was him; he had no clue about the other kid.

Neither did Bridges apparently. 

“Who’s he?” The note of familiarity he’d been addressing Spot with was gone and he’d gone rigid. Spot wanted to look as tough as Bridges did right about then.

Paulie was unfazed, ruffling the shorter kid’s hair and ignoring the stark tension in the air. Spot thought that was pretty tough too. “This? This’s Racetrack, he’ll be sellin’ at Sheepshead from now on.”

“Says who?” Bridges asked tensely. 

The kid, Jack, looked like he was going to pipe up but Paulie cut him off and gripped his shoulder tightly. “Me, seems fair since a couple of ya guys jumped some of our little guys the otha’ day.”

“Carver?” 

Spot flinched at the name, fucker hadn’t taken the hint and left, been hanging around for a couple years.

“He ain’t one of my guys.”

“He Brooklyn ain’t he?”

“Yeah.”

“Then he’s one of your guys, and fairs fair,” Paulie said, “None of ya sell at Sheepshead anyway and Racer here’s been scopin’ out the place for weeks.”

Racetrack nodded and connected eyes with Spot for a half second before looking back at Bridges.

Kid looked like a cocky son of a bitch if Spot’d ever seen one but an arm slinging over his shoulder cut that off. He frowned at looked up at Bridges, who was wearing a smirk Spot was all too familiar with.

“Alright Paulie, he can sell,” Bridges said, “ _ if  _ he sticks with Spotty here for a couple weeks. Wouldn’t want your guy to get in any trouble would we?”

Spot looked up. “ _ What?” _ He got a smack to the back of the head and a pointed look.

Why would Bridges be making them stick together? He had nothing to gain with having Spot out at Sheepshead everyday, it was a seedy joint anyway.

But Paulie and Bridges must’ve known something he didn’t cause they stared each other down for a few good seconds before Paulie grumbled something and took a step forward. 

He spit in his hand and held it out. “Deal.”

Bridges followed suit. “Deal.”

They shook and Spot looked over to see Jack laughing a bit and shoving at Race, who shot Spot a grin and a wink. 

He could fucking cry really.

* * *

 

This wasn’t how it was all supposed to go down. Spot didn’t know how it was supposed to go down but it sure as hell wasn’t like this.

It was drizzling in New York and Spot was at a funeral. Not his first and definitely not this last, and it wasn’t fucking good enough.

They’d chipped in and gotten Bridges a shitty casket and dug out a space for him in the lot behind the lodging house, the usual thing. But it still wasn’t enough, not for Bridges, he’s raised all of them for Chrissake. 

“Spot?”

He looked from where his eyes had been glued to the mound of dirt for the last ten minutes, it was Blue, and damn was the kid shakin’. He’d have to talk with him later, he’d known Bridges longer than Spot and wasn’t taking it well; he had to do that sort of stuff now, at least till he was lying there next to Bridges.

But Blue nodded his head toward the door. “Two Manhattan boys are here for ya, said they wanted ta pay their respects.”

A sigh escaped him and Spot nodded, an arm on Blue’s shoulder before he could turn back. “I’ll come with ya kid, go get somethin’ ta eat afta this okay? I can hear ya stomach growling from ova here.”

It was a weak attempt at humor but it looked like it helped, Blue letting out a shaky laugh and nodding as he and Spot made their way inside. Got about a foot in the door before they ran smack into Jack Kelly, Racetrack Higgins a step off his right shoulder. Should’ve guessed it would be those two.

“Kelly.”

“Conlon.”

It was curt but not uncomfortable and Spot dug around his pocket for a second and handed Blue a quarter before ruffling his hair and pushing him off. Race was watching him in his peripheral vision and he could have sworn there was a hint of something like surprise there, didn’t care now though.

“I’m real sorry ‘bout Bridges Spot,” Jack said as he took of his hat, “He was a great guy, s’not right.”

Cold droplets hit his fingertips as Spot raked a hand through his hair. “Yeah-” 

The rest of his words caught in his throat and Spot took a shaky breath, it felt like his throat was closing up and this wasn’t the time. He was leader now and talking to the leader of the Manhattan boys, couldn’t act like a fuckin’ girl just cause he was upset.

Jack was looking at him with a hint of pity though and it wasn’t helping. Unsurprisingly, Race decided to chime in.

“Yeah Spot, I remember when Paulie died, we was all a wreck, couldn’t sell for shit for a whole week, remember Jack?” He nudged Jack and got a nod.

“He’s right, I couldn’t sell more’n ten papes a day, kept gettin’ choked up thinkin’ ‘bout him.”

Business wasn’t usually conducted like this before. Whenever Bridges got with Paulie or Ink from Queens or guys from the Bronx, they never were like this to each other. Even if someone died.

But Jack and him seemed like they were starting off on a different foot and Spot didn’t really mind. Felt sort of nice actually.

He cleared his throat. “Yeah, Paulie was a good guy, Bridges too, neither of them to go out the way they did.”

A silence set in between them after that, the more he said it the realer it felt, and he could feel himself start to crumble a little bit.

But Jack just nodded and sighed heavily for a few more seconds before they all snapped out of it.

“We’se gonna go out back if that’s alright? We’ll head back across the bridge afta that.”

Spot nodded and Jack brushed past him and out the door. Race lingered for a second.

He shifted back on his heels for a second before meeting Spot’s eyes, it looked like he might want to cry too. 

“I’se real sorry Spotty. I know ya really loved Bridges and he was good ta me too and I’ll never forget that. I owe him and now I owe you.”

Shocked, Spot didn’t say anything, just watched as Race walked into the lot to meet Jack. Never had Race been that candid and it made everything feel worse despite the intent of the gesture.

Fuck. This sucked, he wasn’t ready for all of this yet. It felt like Bridges fell into the goddamn river and dragged him down too, and he almost managed to convince himself that it wasn’t tears in his eyes, but river water. Almost.

* * *

 

Being the leader of Brooklyn had its perks. You got a lot of space for yourself when you wanted it, and nobody asked why. Not to say that they all didn’t know why, but it was understood that if you said something about it out loud you’d be breathing through a broken nose for a while.

Race breathed against his neck and Spot shivered. Fuck everyone that wasn’t in this room right now, they didn’t matter.

Nails dug into his back and he let out a whine. “Fuck.”

Race brought his head up from Spot’s neck and opened his mouth to say something, cut off by Spot’s lips on his own and hands tangling into his hair. Biting Race’s lip softly he mumbled into his mouth, “You talk too much.”

Before he could process it he was flat on his back and Race’s mouth was back on his collarbone and he felt so fucking  _ good _ . It sounded like Race tried to snark something but he couldn’t care less, just focused on the feeling of their hips grinding together and the sound of their breathing. He couldn’t tell where his started and Race’s ended. 

Teeth dug into his skin the lightest bit and Spot sug his heels into the thin mattress and curled his fingers into the sheets until his knuckles turned white.

It was a compromising position, sure. 

So yeah, when the door opened and Shorty stuck his head in, Race jumping off him in a half second was expected. 

The door slammed shut and Spot sat up with a groan, damn kids had to learn how to knock. He was about to say so when Race let out a groan into his hands and got off the bed completely.

“Shit, fuck.”

Spot propped himself on his elbows and tilted his head at Race. “What? Kid’s not gonna tell nobody.”

That had to be some sort of universal rule right? A lot of guys messed around, at least among the newsies, and if anyone had a problem with it they either fought it out or got over it, but nobody said anything. Wasn’t worth all the hassle.

Race didn’t seem to get that though, and looked white as a sheet despite the dim lighting of the room. 

“We’se never gotten caught before Spot,” Race said, voice strained. 

None of this was making sense to Spot, god knows Race didn’t have a problem with any of this, with him, right? 

“And?”

“Whaddya mean  _ and _ ?” Race snapped, “This ain’t supposed ta be public fucking information.” 

Spot thought Race’s hands were shaking but they shot behind his back before he could get a good look. “And it ain’t going ta be, Shorty’s not gonna say shit, knows better.”

That sounded convincing to him but Race was starting for the window.

“I’se gonna go Spotty.”

Spot made to stand. “Why-”

“Cause I wanna, gettin’ dark anyways,” Race said quickly, out the window faster than what Spot would’ve thought safe. He didn’t say goodbye before pulling the window shut.

It hurt more than Spot would admit, not to say he’d admit a lot. But damn he never pegged Racetrack as one of those guys that fucked around and just left. He wasn’t one of those guys but he was sure as hell acting like it.

The room felt quiet and Spot pulled a pillow into his ap and pressed his face into it. He didn’t need this shit right now, not today, of all days really.

Why was it that he always felt like crying on his birthday?

* * *

 

Pain shot through Spot’s wrist and spread up his arm as he threw his knuckles into the wall over and over again. 

A part of him knew that he’d end up breaking it if he didn’t quit soon but every time he made to stop he kept picturing fucking Racetrack leaving his room and the way Sheepshead was weirdly silent the last few times he’d shown up. 

His vision was shaky and cut off and he was so focused on hitting the same spot of brick each time that he didn’t process the sound of a garbage can falling over, or the footsteps rushing toward him.

So when a hand pulled at his shoulder he didn’t think about it before whipping around and throwing his fist out. “Fuck off!”

“Shit Spot, stoppit!” Race said as he ducked Spot’s punch and made to grab his shoulders.

The processing in his brain was screwed up because he was actually taking steps back from the scrawny kid in front of him until his back pressed against the wall.

Bridges told him about this thing called fight or flight once, didn’t really get the second half of it ‘til just now.

Race needed to get away and he didn’t know why but the weight of his hands on Spot’s shoulders holding him in place felt like a fucking shock. 

“Spotty? Breath pal, I ain’t gonna hurt ya.”

That stung even though it wasn’t supposed to. He almost shoved out but held back, fists clenching while blood dripped onto the cracked concrete at their feet.

“I’se fine Race,” he said without thinking. His jaw started with the familiar ache again and he didn’t need it right now.

He didn’t sell it though, and Race shook his head. “Nope, you was tryin’ ta break your hand against a brick wall, not fine.”

“Why do you care?” Spot spit out. Anger usually managed to stop this shit from coming out, Race flinching counteracted that pretty well.

The grip on his shoulders loosened. “Cause I do okay? I acted like a real prick Spotty and I was comin’ here ta apologize and just, I’se sorry, okay?” 

It was rushed and familiar and it cracked at Spot’s resolve. Head shaking he screwed his eyes shut and set his jaw. If he opened his mouth the sob that was building in his throat would come out and he couldn’t. Let it.

A hand brushed at his jaw and Race moved closer. “I’se so sorry Spot, please just say somethin’.”

You get what you ask for and Spot finally let go, nearly knocking Race over as he buried his face in his tattered shirt. And it all came out, tears and sobs and hiccups and whimpers and he was too far gone to reel it back in. 

Racetrack didn’t care though. “Let it out Spotty. I’ll neva’ pull that shit again, I swear, I swear, I swear…”

There was a crack at the end of the sentence and it just made the tears come faster cause now Race was crying against him and it hurt and his hand hurt but his jaw didn’t fucking hurt.

Felt better than it had in years actually.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope y'all liked these sad boys, leave kudos/comments if you did!!
> 
> (also rip my ability to name OC newsies)


End file.
